I Wish It Was Me
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Series 2 AU. Isobel receives some bad news. Will have more than one chapter, definitely.
1. Chapter 1

**No idea what you will all think of this. For Daalny, again. **

_Dear Mrs Crawley_,

_It is my sad duty to inform you that your fiancé, Major Richard Clarkson, died in action at the Somme. He was a highly regarded soldier among his men. He fought bravely for his country, and in doing was taken from us. He will be greatly missed. _

_My condolences for your loss. _

_Colonel R Johnston_

…**...**

Matthew handed the telegram back to his mother, his face aghast. She took it back, not looking at his face, and stored in quickly inside the pocket of her navy blue jacket.

"Mother," he murmured after a while, "I don't understand."

She did not reply.

"I thought he was there in a medical capacity?" he asked, "I didn't know he was going into action."

"Nor did I," she told him.

There was a heavy silence.

"Your fiancé?" he asked, unable to shift the surprise from his voice.

"Yes," she answered calmly. She was silent a little while longer, "We decided not to tell anyone, it happened quite quickly. He wanted to know for certain that I was sure. But I was," she told him quietly, "I was always sure. I loved him. I loved him very much."

Matthew was quiet for a moment.

"I'm sorry, Mother," he told her quietly, reaching out to take her hand, "I don't know what to say."

She took his hand in return.

"My darling boy, there's nothing you can say," she told him in reply, forcing herself into a little sad smile, "But thank you for trying."

"Do you want me to go?" he asked, "If you want time alone I can make up some reason to go to the big house."

"No, don't go," she told him, "I don't think I want to be alone. I don't want to waste the time you have on leave. I wasted too much of the time I had with Richard-..." and with that she dissolved into tears.

"Mother," Matthew murmured, drawing her softly into his arms, holding her gently, "Oh, Mother."

"I wish you'd told me," he murmured when her tears had subsided a little, "I wish I could have known while you were happy."

"Oh God, Matthew, I wish I'd told you too. I should have told the world. I was so proud of him, I loved him so much. I wish it had been me."

**Please review if you have the time.**


	2. Chapter 2

People would ask for explanations, of course, of the most painfully self-evident things.

"But why write and tell Cousin Isobel?" Robert wondered out loud as his wife sat beside him, reading the telegram that Isobel had handed over to her, "I mean, I understand that they were colleagues, but he was working at our house before he left, why not tell-,"

"Robert," Cora cut him off with a warning tone, handing out the telegram for him to take, "Read it."

Isobel bowed her head, determined not to return the confused, pitying look that Cora gave her as Robert cast his eyes over the message.

"Fiancé?" Robert repeated, looking up at Isobel, astounded.

All eyes seemed to turn to her.

"Yes," she replied bluntly.

She raised her eye a fraction, and the first thing she caught sight of was Sybil's face under her nurse's cap, her lips parted in shock, a looked of absolute heartbreak in her young eyes. Isobel looked quickly away.

Cousin Violet cleared her throat.

"I think I would like an explanation," she announced.

"Mama, I don't think anything needs explaining," Cora hissed, but Isobel's head had snapped up already.

"I think the idea is quite simple to grasp," Isobel told her coldly, not angrily but completely coldly, "I loved a man. I wanted to marry him. I was as good as married to him already. And now he's gone. There's very little more to it than that."

There was a dull silence for long moments. No one knew what to say.

"I meant," Cousin Violet replied, a little reproachfully, after a long moment, "I don't understand why he was in the middle of the action. He was a medic! Why was he fighting?"

"I don't know," Isobel replied at last, not looking at anyone, "I wish I did know."

"Is there a chance that it might not be him?" Mary asked the room at large, "It's not as if the Army's never been known to make a mistake, is it?"

"I don't think we should be raising anyone's hopes on that score," Cousin Robert interceded quickly, "Especially not Cousin Isobel's."

Isobel ignored him.

"Yes, I have," she replied to Mary, "In fact I've considered very little else ever since. It's the reason I'm still here," she turned her head a little towards Cousin Robert, "Not make me doubt it. Not yet."

There was a deep silence.

"We understand how much this must have upset you-..." Cora began softly.

"No, you don't," Isobel cut her off, "Forgive me, but you don't. None of you can understand this."

"I hardly think that's fair," Robert replied, "Mama has buried a husband, and Mary lost her fiancé too, when she was very young."

"And I've done both," Isobel answered him, "None of you understand how you love the person who gives you a second chance. None of you know."

Another silence. Their faces had all softened, her words had taken their away from them.

Robert sighed at last.

"It's you who deserves explanations, not us," he told her, "Would you like me to see if I can find out something more?"

"Would you?" she asked him, "That would be very good of you."

"I'll do it now," he promised her, "If you would care to wait."

She nodded haltingly.

"Just stay here with Mama and Cora," he told her, "I will be back as soon as I know something."

…**...**

The wait seemed to last forever. They waited in silence, Isobel, Cora and Violet. The girls went back to whatever work they had left. By the look on Sybil's face, she could not bear to stay.

And then Robert returned. And drew Isobel out of the room into the empty hall.

"I'm terribly sorry, Isobel, I almost don't know how to tell you. I'm afraid Major Clarkson was shot for desertion." 


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for your reviews so far. Please let me known what you think about this, I'm not sure if I like it or not. **

And then she was in Richard's arms. She wasn't standing any more, they were lying down, and the hard wooden of the hall dissolved into softness. She could not see what they were lying on, and did not care; only knowing that it was soft, warm, that it was safe. Richard was safe, he was next to her. She gasped quietly. She felt him brush his fingers along her hair and smile. He was alive! Lying close to his chest she could feel his heart beating next to hers. He was here with her, and he was still smiling, and then he was kissing her. She sighed in contentedness which quickly turned into a moan as he rolled his weight over hers.

"Richard," she murmured, "Oh Richard."

He did not speak, only kissing her again in reply.

"Oh, my darling," she whispered between kisses, "Thank you for coming back. Thank you."

She clung to his arms as his hands opened her blouse, meaning never to let go. His hand caressed her shoulders and her collarbone.

"I love you so much," she whispered, "I love you, I love you, Richard."

He kissed the sobs out of her voice. She gasped throatily, her lips shuddering against his. Her fingers brushed through his hair, revelling in the feeling of his skin under her nails. He was kissing her chest and she was gasping, and-...

"Mrs Crawley! Mrs Crawley!"

She woke groggily. Still, she was lying on something soft, but not in the same place.

"Where am I?" she asked breathlessly, sitting up abruptly.

A hand reached out and touched her shoulder, encouraging her to lie back down. Her eyes began to focus as she leant backwards. It was Mrs Hughes.

"You fainted," the housekeeper told her gently, "I said I'd sit with you. You sounded distressed, so I woke you."

"I fainted?" Isobel asked, "How long for?"

"You were unconscious for a little while," Mrs Hughes replied, "By the time Mr Carson had carried you up here you seemed to be sleeping, though. You slept for about three hours."

"I'm sorry," she responded automatically, "I hope I didn't keep you from your work."

"They can manage without be for a few hours, I dare say," Mrs Hughes told her, "And you needed someone to stay with you."

"I wish Richard had been here," she said, without thinking, "I'd liked him to have stayed."

And then it hit her, she remembered. She remembered everything. She let out a little gasp, pressed her hand to her lips. Mrs Hughes watched her face carefully. Isobel stared at the light for the window. How could she have forgotten? How did it slip her mind for a single moment?

"You were talking to him," Mrs Hughes murmured after a while, "In your sleep."

"Oh," Isobel muttered in reply, flushing a little.

"Don't worry," Mrs Hughes told her, "It wasn't-... I won't say anything."

"We weren't lovers, you know," Isobel blurted out, feeling the need to explain.

Mrs Hughes raised her eyebrow just a fraction.

"Oh?"

"I mean," Isobel continued, "Everyone probably thinks we were, after what I said. But we weren't. He-... wouldn't. He wanted to wait until we were married. He was absurdly old fashion about things sometimes," she smiled a little, remembering some of the conversations they had had, "He would hold me, kiss me. Once or twice he even-..." she flushed deeply as her mouth formed the words, euphemistic as they were, "Did things for me. But we never made love. We'll never make love."

She hardly got the words out, she dissolved as they formed in her mind. She raised a hand to cover her mouth, clasping it hard to stifle her sobs. Mrs Hughes only watched, letting her cry it out. It sickened her, that a love as intense as theirs could go unconsummated. If only she could live it all again, not a moment would be wasted.

"I'm sorry," she gasped at last.

"Don't be," Mrs Hughes told her immediately, "You have nothing to be sorry for. I think you're the one who is owed an apology. Here," se handed her the handkerchief she kept in her pocket.

Isobel took it and wiped her eyes.

"Thank you," she murmured.

There was a knock at the door. Mrs Hughes glanced at Isobel and waited for her nod before going to answer it.

"It's your son," she told her.

"Come in, Matthew," she called.

Matthew entered and Mrs Hughes gave him her chair by the bed before slipping outside.

"How are you, Mother?" he asked, "I came as soon as I heard."

"I've seen better days, my dear," she told him sadly.

He gave her a sad smile in reply.

"Mother, I've had an idea," he told her.

"Oh, yes," she asked, a little disinterestedly, "What is it?"

"Would you like to get away from here?" he asked, "For a week or so?"

"It's a nice thought," she replied, "But I can't bear to leave the hospital," she told him, "It would be wrong of me."

"What if you were to accept a temporary post at another hospital?" he asked her.

She was silent.

"You see, I've been ordered to go and visit the commander of the Oxford regiment," he explained, "The military hospital at the old Examination Schools is short of staff, and they said they'd be glad of your help while you can offer it. If you want, of course, only if you want. Form what Cousin Robert said it would do you some good to get away. Apparently you were rather short with Cousin Violet."

"I'm always short with Cousin Violet," she reminded him, with a weary smile.


	4. Chapter 4

She met him where they had arranged earlier; at the corner of the Christ Church Meadow and the Isis.

"I'm glad you're keeping warm," she told him, touching the arm of his overcoat as he leant forwards to kiss her on the cheek.

"Hello, Mother."

"I wish you didn't have to go back so soon," she told him.

"So do I," Matthew replied as they started to amble slowly along the bank of the river, "I don't like to leave you, especially not now."

Isobel gave a quiet sniff, folding her arms over her own coat, and said nothing.

"Colonel Harris tells me you're going to stay at the Exam Schools another week?"

"Yes," she replied, "You were right, it's been good for me to be away from Downton. I don't feel ready to go back. Not just yet."

"Promise me you'll be alright when you do," he asked her.

"Promise me you'll be alright too, then?" she challenged him.

He seemed crestfallen at her resolution. She sighed under her breath. She wished she didn't have to upset him, but she was so thoroughly disillusioned with the army that it pained her. Richard had not died a peaceful death. She would have known that even if she hadn't come to find out, by accident, that the bastards had shot him. She had seen the injured, the extent of the damage. No one would die a peaceful death out there.

"Have you got a cigarette?" she asked him.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do." It took him a moment to catch on. "Why, do you want one?"

"If you can spare it," she replied.

He took out his case and lit one up for her, passing it to her between his fingers. She took it and took a long drag from it.

"I didn't know you smoked, Mother."

"I don't," she replied, "Richard did. I like the smell. One of the men on the ward offered me one and I couldn't help myself."

There were two swans swimming together on the river. Isobel walked past them without looking, just smoking her cigarette.

"I've learned something about love, Matthew," she told him at last, "You forgive anything. Anything. It sounds silly, really, stupidly obvious, but I'd never realise it before. It wraps you up so you don't even see what everyone else would call shame," she took another drag, "That's why I can't go back to Downton yet."

"You think they blame him for deserting?" he asked her in a low voice.

"I know they do," she replied fiercely, "And I think you do too, Matthew."

"Mother-..." he muttered in a low voice, "Mother, please."

"Why can't you say it out loud, then?" she asked him, suddenly angry, dropping her cigarette on the path and extinguishing it with a sharp stamp of her foot, "My fiancé was shot for desertion, and from what I've seen of the men who come back it was a damn sensible idea! I knew him better than anyone, and I know he was the bravest of men. And no telegram, do telephone can tell me otherwise."

There was a silence. They were standing still. Her raising her voice had frightened the swans off the river.

"Mother," Matthew told her softly, "I don't blame him. Not in the least. If anything, I blame him for going to the front and leaving you. Nothing else."

"I wish he'd stayed," she admitted quietly after a moment, "I wish I'd gone with him. I wish I'd been there at the end. I wish I could have helped him in any way."

She turned away from him, closing her eyes, letting the cool water-breeze wash gently over her face.

"I wish I was dead," she whispered.

She did not know if Matthew heard her, but his hand reached gently out for her wrist, pulling her softly back, making her walk again, leading her back towards the city. He lead her through the thin covering of the trees, pausing before they reached the fork in the river and the gate that led back to the High Street.

"Can you go on living for me?" he asked her, softly.

She would have answered, "Can you promise me you'll come back?" but for the quiver in his voice.

She looked at him properly for the first time since they had stood together by the river.

"Yes, my darling boy," she told him, "For you, I can."

**Please review if you have the time. **


	5. Chapter 5

Her feet dragged wearily as she made her way up the stairs to her room. It was small, functional, overlooking the High Street. But by now it was quiet, late at night, the dark blue of the sky pervading through the window. She switched on the gaslight, and sat down heavily on her bed. She was still unused to this arriving back to an empty room. There had always been Reginald, Matthew or Richard. The rooms around hers were full, housing other nurses, but at this time she couldn't bring herself to talk to them. Most of them were younger than herself, she thought she liked to take care of them as they worked together; murmuring encouragement when the matron was tough, a gentle touch on the shoulder after an unexpected loss. But off duty she was not part of their world and they were not part of hers.

She sighed as she eased her boots off her ankles, kicking them a little way away so she could put her feet up on the bed. Propping her single pillow up, she sat back against the headboard, undoing the tight collar of her nurse's dress as she did so. Her letters lay on the tiny bedside table. Rather languidly, she picked them up and begin to read them, not fully concentrating. She would read them again in the morning, to raise her spirits before working again. She smiled as she remembered that tomorrow was the last day of her posting, if she wanted to stay longer she could but need not. She had not decided, but it was good to have the choice.

There was a note from Matthew; the usual, asking how she was, telling her to stay cheerful. She smiled at the thought and set the letter aside. Another from Cora, and to her surprise, a brief note from Violet. She came to the last envelope and was surprised by a hand she knew but could not place. She opened it, frowning.

Of course, it was Molesley's writing! How silly of her to forget.

_Dear Madam_, it read, _I hope this letter finds you well and enjoying Oxford. This letter arrived for you at Crawley House. I thought it best to send it on to you, I remembered the handwriting. _

Her frown grew deeper. Inside the first envelope was another. And this writing, she knew instantly. This writing had written her love-notes.

"Richard! For the first time in a long while, his name escaped her lips unintentionally.

She ripped the envelope in her impatience. He must have written it before-... It did not matter, it was _him_, they were his words to _her_ and nothing could lessen that.

She unfolded the paper hurriedly.

_Darling Isobel,_

_As you know there is only so much I am able to say in a letter. _

_If you hear bad news do not heed it. I cannot explain now. _

_Wait for me. _

_I will be there to marry you, my love, soon. _

_Your Richard. _

Her heart pounding, she checked the date. It had been written the day she had come to Oxford.

He was alive then. She read it again. No matter that she hardly knew what to make of the words, what on earth they might mean, the most simple meaning was resoundingly clear: he had been alive when she had been told he was dead, she would never mistake his writing.

As fast as she could, she swung her legs down from the bed, hurriedly drawing her suitcase out from under the bed, opening it and lying it out on her bed. It took her fifteen minutes to pack. She would be back at Downton as soon as she could manage it.

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	6. Chapter 6

There was general surprise to see her returned so soon. She fancied that Cousin Violet might have rather hoped that the move was permanent. People were at least kind in their surprise, though they remained confused. Everyone seemed to be waiting for her to explain something; why she was back so soon, why she was suddenly in altered, arguably better, spirits.

She did not tell them about the letter, and Molesley seemed to understand that it was not something to be mentioned. She did not want them knowing about the note. It had been clear before she left that they saw her hope as a little desperate. She wanted to keep this to herself, and guard it from the sympathetic suspicion that it was something she had invented or fabricated to ease her mind. Matthew, she might have been tempted to tell, had he been there, but he was not.

It was hard, though, not being able to confide in anyone. She had returned in a hurry, expecting something to happen immediately, and when it did not she could not shake the feeling that something was about to happen, some unnamed yet momentous event. She wondered where he was. She wondered if he was alright. She prayed that he was. Every time a new patient was brought into the hospital, a thrill of horror ran through her as she imagined seeing his face at the head of a mangled body. She held her breath for half a second whenever a patient's first name was Richard, dreading the possibility of the surname being Clarkson. Nor could she sleep very easily. Every time she got into bed she would wait hours before sleep overtook her. She would lie in bed and imagine him lying beside her, holding her. She would dream that he was making love to her and wake up in a flushed sweat. She ached for him.

The longer she waited the more she began to think that maybe the family were right, maybe she had made the whole thing up to console herself. Every time those thoughts gathered, she would take his letter out of her inside pocket, and read it as many times as it took. It _was _his handwriting. It _was _his brief, but beautifully powerful phrasing. She could not remember waiting for so long and with such intensity for anything in her life.

And then, a telegram;

Have been given leave. Home on next convoy. My love. R.

She could not believe it. A telegram bringing news of life, not death. She wanted to cry. She was overcome.

She must have staggered slightly as she read it, because Mrs Hughes crossed the hall quickly to see if she was alright.

"What is it, Ma'am?" she asked.

Isobel showed her the telegram, her voice failing her.

Mrs Hughes raised an eyebrow, looking at her in bafflement.

"Well," she murmured, sounding more than a little unsettled, "That it a turn up for the books."

It suddenly returned to Isobel that everyone else still though that Richard was dead.

She grinned at her own momentary stupidity, squeezing Mrs Hughes' hand for a second, letting her know it was alright.

"He's coming home," she whispered, "I've been waiting for this for so long."

But as the initial happiness wore off, she began to wonder at how on earth this happening. How was he being sent home, and how soon would he have to leave again? More importantly, how had she come to be told that he had been executed- the word still made her shiver- for cowardice? How had he known, and tried to warn her, that she might receive bad news of him? What was she going to do when a man everyone thought was dead turned up in the village and wanted to marry her?

She wanted an explanation, she wanted several explanations.

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	7. Chapter 7

And then, all of a sudden, before she properly knew what had happened, he had come back.

One day she herself quietly back into Crawley House, knowing that it was Molesley's day off, not expecting to find anyone waiting for her at all. She dropped her bag as she saw who was sitting in the armchair in her sitting room. It hit the floor, but she just stood there in shock, not heading it.

He looked worn, still handsome of course, but tired, weary, but he stood swiftly when he saw that she could not move, reaching down to pick up her bag for her. He was clean as well, she saw; as an officer he has obviously been given the facility to wash himself before he travelled. He placed it gently on the chair beside them when her hands did not reach out to take it back.

They were close, ever so close to one another. She could feel the presence of his body beside her without having to touch him, there seemed to be something powerful pulling them towards each other. She could hear the sound of his breathing. She took in his appearance once more, her eyes flicking over him from this closer angle. He was still wearing the red cross of a medic on the arm of his battle tunic, and the sight of it was a great relief.

His lips had formed a smile at the sight of her, but her hesitation seemed to dishearten him a little. She needed to know that it was alright for her to touch him, that he did not have any small wounds where she might hurt him by accident. She needed to know that he still wanted her to touch him after what he'd been through. But he seemed to understand.

"It's alright," he whispered, leaning in a little closer, and then, "I'm here."

The first thing she did was touch his arm tenderly, over his medic's armband. Her eyes fell shut slowly as their lips met and he kissed her soundly. His arms wrapped around her and she sighed happily, he was very much here, he was real, he was real; she could feel him beneath her fingers, he was so much more than he had been in her desperate dreams, with the lightest touches he was was enforcing his reality so strongly, and it overwhelmed her. Her lips opened, welcoming him. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her hands tangling in his hair.

"Richard-..." she moaned against his lips, "Love you," she told him between kisses.

"I love you so much as well," he whispered to her, resting his forehead on hers, holding on to her waist, "The thought of you kept me alive."

"I'll tell that to the family when I explain to them why I'm living with a dead man," she quipped.

He smiled, kissing her again, before asking, "Living with you?"

"Yes," she whispered, "Nothing will persuade me to part from you. Until you have too-..."

"I didn't tell you," he cut her off, "I've been granted indefinite leave from my regiment," he told her softly, "They've transferred me back to a hospital in Britain."

"Where?" she breathed.

"Downton Village," he replied.

"Oh Richard!"

She threw her arms around him once more, burying her face in his neck, planting kisses on every inch of skin she could reach.

"Come to bed with me," she whispered.

He stiffened a little.

"I thought we sho-..."

"Richard, I'm tired of waiting," she told him, "I don't care that we aren't married. Bed, now."

"No," he stopped her, "I mean, don't you want to talk about what happened? About what I did?"

She looked at him clearly.

"Can it wait?" she asked him gently, "Can I hear it in an hour, or in the morning after you've slept?" Her hand touched his, and she kissed him again softly. "I want to do this now," she told him, "I want to show you that it won't matter to me what happened out there, I will still love you. I love you and will love you regardless of what you did in France, I realised that when you were gone. I realise that terrible things happen in a war, I'm glad just to have you," she touched his face with her fingertips, "So will you come to bed with me, and make love, and tell me in the morning? Is that something you can do?"

He met her eyes. Nodded. Took her hand, and followed her.

**Please review if you have the time. **


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry for the delay, both in producing something and giving any answers. I realised I hadn't fulfilled my M rating and had to attend to it immediately. **

She led him into her bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him once he was inside. Turning away from the handle, their eyes met and they both smiled at each other, softly, a little shyly, but still their passion was evident from the look. Isobel thought she was still entranced by his presence, that he was here, that he was actually here in the flesh- the lips she had kissed, the heartbeat she had felt. She could not stay away from him, even without her thinking about it, her feet were drawn across the room, and she was approaching him again and his arms were extended to receive her.

Wrapped in each other's arms, they stood in the middle of the room, kissing. From his kiss, it was as if he'd never gone away. She marvelled that someone who had seen what he must have done could be so gentle, that there could be any gentleness left in him, and yet here he was, lavishing it on her. She sighed in contentment, her arms wrapped around his neck.

"Are you alright?" he asked her.

"Yes," she replied softly, "Very alright."

His hand brushed up and down her waist, moving around to cradle the base of her spine.

"I don't want to hurt you," he murmured, his eyes lower, "I've hurt enough. I've hurt you enough."

She cupped his face, lifting his chin a little to look at her.

"I love you," she told him, "You won't hurt me."

She kissed him as tenderly as she could.

"It's alright," she whispered.

"I love you, Isobel," he replied.

"I love you too," she told him again. And then, "Take your uniform off?"

He complied, undoing the button on the front of his tunic, shrugging it off his shoulders and to the floor. She raised her hands to undo his tie and shirt buttons.

"Undress me," she whispered to him.

He did as he was bidden, slipping the buttons of her jacket open.

"Am I asking too much?" she asked.

"Never," he replied softly.

Her hands ran up and down his bare chest, remembering what his skin had looked like before, trying to identify any changes. He had always had scars- leftovers, he called them, from the South African war. There were some new scratches but no deep wounds. She ran her fingertips over his skin, planting a kiss at the base of his throat.

She had seen him like this before. She shivered, remembering the times before he had gone away when, in spite of his gallantry, they had got ahead of themselves, found themselves almost stripped down, her in her underclothes, him in his trousers, kissing, touching everywhere. Her legs draped gently over his shoulders. His hands holding her.

He was gently divesting her of her clothes as these memories ran through her mind, pausing as he reached her corset, for permission and a little bit of help. Smiling, she guided his fingers to the hooks and it came apart in his hands. Discarding it, he followed her towards the bed.

She sat down of the edge, sinking before him, letting her hands run lower as she did so. She looked up at him, moving her hands to the front of his trousers.

"Isobel-..." he murmured, his hands lingering over hers.

She looked him clear in the eyes.

"Let me," she asked him, "Please?"

"You don't need to," he told her.

"I want to," she replied, "You want me to," brushing her hand gently over the bulge in his trousers.

"Isobel-... ISOBEL," he cried out as she swiftly undid his trousers and touched him with her mouth.

Slipping her hands inside his short to cup his bottom, she took him inside her mouth, humming with contentment at the sounds he was making. She had thought about doing this ever since he had first pleasured her and the reality was more than living up to her expectations.

"Isobel," he gasped, "Need to make love-... now-... please-..."

She did not need asking twice. Pulling back, she looked up at him, letting him lean forwards and kiss her, pressing her backwards into the bed. She lay back, her arms winding around her neck again, pulling him with her. He paused only to kick his trousers and shorts off before they arranged themselves on the bed, him settling himself over her and kissing her again. His hands were on her breasts and she arched her hips upwards so that his arousal brushed against her stomach, down to the satin of her underwear. He groaned loudly.

"Now," she whispered.

He sat backwards, slipping his thumb into her underwear, pulling them down her legs and off. She sat up as he did so, moving gently towards him. She came to where he sat, spreading her legs over his.

"Like this?" she asked.

He groaned, pulling her towards him and burying his face in her shoulder. He slipped his hand between her legs, feeling her arousal, but she knew she was ready for him. She sank down onto him, wrapping her legs around his back. They both gasped loudly, her head falling back a little. His hand cradled the back of her neck, kissing her throat. She was still for a few moments, getting used to the feeling of him filling her. And then she began to move, holding on to his shoulders for leverage, her eyes half open, watching the way his eyes fell shut with feeling, listening to the words tumbling from his lips.

"Jesus, Isobel, yes, like that, oh god, yes, that."

She kissed his face and his arms wrapped around her back and she rested her head against his shoulder.

"Richard, I love you," she told him, "I love you, I love you, I love you."

She said it over and over again, because she could, because it was true and because he was here, he was alive to hear it.

He slipped his hand between their bodies, touching her, determined not to leave her behind, and she cried out just before he emitted a long, low groan. Her body collapsed forwards into his, his hands latched around her back.

"I love you," she murmured hoarsely into his skin.

He kissed the top of her head.

"I love you too," he whispered back.

**Please review if you have the time. **


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